Devices
by Isadora-Greenhall
Summary: SUPERWHOLOCK Isadora Greenhall's stalker gets a little too close for comfort, she calls for help
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I don't want to be that person, but this is my first fanfic so please be nice

Also, I'm only gonna do a disclaimer on chapter 1, so sue me

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Doctor Who, Sherlock or Supernatural, or any of the characters featured in those stories

CHAPTER I

I slammed the front door behind me and locked it with shaking hands. I hurried to the phone, where it took me three goes to punch in the right number—the number my godmother gave me five years ago. My blood thudded through my veins, threatening a migraine and my breathing was erratic as I began to pace on aching feet. By the third ring, I realised I hadn't put my handbag down yet and promptly dropped it on the sofa. By the fifth, I began to panic and was about to redial, when—

"—_answer your own bloody phone one of these days_…Hello? Sherlock Holmes' phone."

My heart sank in disappointment and rising terror. "And you are not Mister Holmes."

"Thank God! If I were—" The man on the other end stopped when he heard me sob into the receiver. "Hey, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

"Um," I rubbed my eyes with my fist. "No. I'm not. My godmother gave me this number. She told me to phone it if I was ever in trouble or—or scared."

A pause. "Are you scared?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?" he asked kindly.

I told him that, "I'm Isadora Greenhall."

"Hello, Isadora, I'm John Watson. I want you to take some deep, calm breaths. Can you do that?" I did as he said, with increasing ease. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"No problem. Now, could you tell me—" John was interrupted by some murmurings at his end, distorted to the point of incomprehensibility to my ears. I strained to hear, but it seemed John had placed his hand over the mouthpiece. I focused on keeping my breathing slow. "_What, why?_" I heard John. The background voice rose in irritation. "_Fine! Fine!_ Isadora, sorry, but could you tell me again who it was who gave you this number? Your grandmother?"

"My _god_mother. Her name's Donna. Donna Temple-Noble. She gave it to me about five years ago."

John relayed this information to whoever was with him. Then I heard him shout angrily and a cool voice, almost mechanical in its diction, sounded in my ear. "Isadora. Where are you?"

"My apartment. Where—?"

"I'm going to need an address."

After taking a moment to collect myself, I gave the stranger my location.

"I will be there shortly. Until then, you must bar every entrance or exit in your home. Understood?"

I told him I did and he hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a quick thanks to my Beta, Maddie, and the kind Anonymous reviewers who took the time to read and comment :)

CHAPTER II

When Sherlock Holmes knocked on my door, I don't know what I was expecting but whatever it was I got none of it. Holmes barged straight past me and down the hall without looking at me.

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you," he called over his shoulder.

Bewildered, I began to close the door, not realising someone else was waiting to be let in—he slipped past me just before the lock clicked.

"Sorry!"

"No problem." He held out his hand. "John. We spoke on the phone."

I shook his hand. "Thank you so much for coming all the way here. I—"

"Where do you keep your tea?" Sherlock called from the next room.

"I don't drink tea," I muttered softly to John as we made our way to the kitchen.

"No tea?" John said in mock horror. "What kind of English person are you?"

"Oh, I'm not—" I started to say. At the same time, Sherlock said bluntly, "She's Irish."

"How could you tell?" I asked, surprised. I was used to being mislabelled.

Sherlock gestured towards my refrigerator, where a tricolour was pinned tellingly.

"Ah. Yes, I grew up in Northern Ireland. My accent, however…"

"Is decidedly not," John supplied.

"My mum's from London, so I just picked up her voice, I suppose."

"Right, yes, well, enough of that," Sherlock said briskly, seating himself at the head of my kitchen table. " Let's get on with why we're here. What did you see?"

As I swept up the papers I'd left on the table this morning before work and stacked them neatly on the kitchen side, I told them everything. "I moved here, to London, about three years ago. I was offered a job I couldn't refuse. Anyway, I started seeing this…guy. Everywhere."

John looked at Sherlock before saying, "What did this guy look like?"

"Dark hair. Trench coat, always in a trench coat. I'd spot him through a crowd, and he'd give me this look. Almost like _pity_. It would completely freak me out, then he'd just disappear."

Sherlock leant back in his chair, unimpressed. I sat down across from John and glared. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I know he's not a ghost. I get that I just lost sight of him. I'm just trying to give you a general idea of how I feel."

Sherlock nodded once. "Proceed."

"At first the sightings were few and far between. I wasn't really concerned enough to call the police or anything. But these last few weeks, I've seen him about eight times. And this afternoon, when I was coming home from work, he was on my bus, about three seats down from me. Staring at me like he does. It's the closest he's ever got to me. I got off at the next stop and ran home. Then I called you."

There was a moment of silence as the three of us gathered our thoughts and processed my story. Then John cleared his throat. "Well, I don't know about Sherlock, but I think I have a couple of questions."

"Okay."

"Don't feel like you have to answer all of these—or any of them, really…Now, you say you've never seen this man before you came to London?"

"That's correct."

"Can you imagine anybody you know who might know him?"

I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. My social circle is pretty limited, about five people at the very most. They wouldn't associate with weirdos like that."

"Is Simon one of these people?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

I jumped. "How—?" My eyes drifted to the papers I'd put aside, which included Simon's last letter. "Yeah, we went to school together back home…But like I said, he wouldn't have anything to do with this creep."

"Speaking of your acquaintances, I must address my next question to Sherlock," John said, turning to his companion. "Why on earth did you only agree to help Isadora when you found out her godmother gave her your number?"

Sherlock Holmes leant forward on his elbows, fingers forming a thoughtful steeple before his lips. "It wasn't so much the godmother who piqued my interest, more that the godmother was Donna Noble."

"Temple-Noble," I corrected automatically. "What's Aunty Donna got to do with the man in the trench coat?"

"Everything and more," Holmes said, rising to his feet. "I think you've given us all the information we need, Miss Greenhall. Now there's just one last thing I need to ask you to do; if you see your gentleman stalker again within one week from this meeting I want you to approach him and ask him what he wants."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three :) Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

CHAPTER III

By the time my lunch break came around, I was ready for it. Spending one's morning on the phone with angry Middle Eastern politicians or their secretaries was not how I liked to begin my day. Usually, I stayed at my desk for the fifteen minutes allotted for the midday meal, scoffing reheated leftovers and downing a soft drink from the vending machine in the hall, but Ruth—a quiet, middle-aged Jewish mother-of-three from the adjoining cubicle—offered me the chance to stretch my legs and get a sandwich from the café around the corner, so long as I got her a takeaway latte.

The deal struck, I hurried downstairs and out the building into the midday rush one only truly experiences when working in the great cities of the world. I exited the café grasping a paper bag containing two focaccias and balancing two hot drinks in my other hand and stopped dead.

_Approach him…Confront him…ask him what he wants…_

Those were Sherlock's instructions. To walk up to my intimidating, possibly dangerous stalker and demand to know why he stared at me.

And here I was, presented with the opportunity. The man in the trench coat was standing across the road, his hands held loosely by his sides. Staring.

And for reasons I will never comprehend, I took Sherlock's advice.

Clutching the paper bag and hot drinks close to my chest, I glued my eyes on the man and crossed the street. Despite what I'd told Sherlock, this man did disappear into thin air. I wasn't going to lose sight of him again.

"Hello," I said quietly, coming to a stop about three feet away, which I judged to be a wise distance. _If he makes a grab for me, I'll have time to throw a drink in his face._

"Hello, Isadora," said trench-coat-man.

It wasn't that he knew my name. That was frustrating enough. What made me angry was that his voice was tinged with the same sympathy he always looked at me with. I forgot myself and stepped closer.

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded. "How do you know my name?"

He sighed, like having to explain himself was an Atlas-esque burden. "My name is Castiel. As for how I know you…it my mission to know."

My eyes widened and my heart thudded in panic. "You're joking, right?" He squinted in confusion, and made to move towards me. I instantly brought my takeaway mocha up between us, pointing at him in defence. "No, stop right there! I should warn you, I have a friend waiting for me at work. If I don't get back in five minutes she'll call the cops!"

Trench coat man ignored my weak threat and continued to approach me. "Ruth is a faithful woman. She knew my cause and obeyed."

_Obeyed?_ "Ruth…works for you?"

"Not exactly. She volunteered herself."

He was close enough to smell—stale aftershave, the sweet musk of man sweat—I couldn't think properly. "Volunteered to do what? Have the kid from Belfast kidnapped?" _By a psychotic bloke with one set of clothes,_ I thought, but didn't say. I valued my life and freedom.

He cocked his head gently to the left. "To deliver you to me. It is not my intention to take you. I require your assistance, Isadora Greenhall, but I will not force you to do anything against your will."

That piqued my interest. "Assistance?" I asked warily.

Castiel smiled. It was a curious smile, like he was doing it deliberately, like he didn't actually need to. As though he had no intention but to reassure me. He seemed hyper aware of the pulling and stretching of the muscles he required to do it. "I need your help, Isadora, to track down and destroy Lucifer's Weapon."


End file.
